


Pariah

by Everlind



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Giant Robots Punching Aliens, M/M, Mind Meld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3334748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve been deployed two times,” Ohtori says. “But when Taki-san died it was like losing a limb.”</p><p>Slowly, stiff and aching from sitting on the cold floor, Shishido gets to his feet. Stretches until he feels every vertebra of his spine pop, arms rising above his head like a cat. Rolls a shoulder and meets Ohtori’s curious gaze frankly. “My co-pilot is in this building right now,” he tells him. “And it is not you.”</p><p>A line appears between the other’s brows (dark, but light hair -how does that even work?). “We are not being given a choice, Shishido-senpai.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pariah

**Author's Note:**

> For the Silver Week at [fuckyeahsilverpair's tumblr](http://fuckyeahsilverpair.tumblr.com). ( the scifi/fantasy prompt)

 

There’s a bald spot amidst the blonde curls. He can’t stop looking at it. Looking at it and thinking ‘I put that there. _I did_.’

Next to him, he’s small and golden and _his_ -his to protect. So much power in such a small body, with a mind of light and determination and fierceness and he let him get hurt. Okay, yeah, fuck, he _knows_ , alright? He knows it’s a symbiotic thing, that Jirou did it to protect him. Hell, he even knows that Jirou did the only thing he could, that he has no damn right to feel like this, even, not when he was there for every single moment of the ride. And yet.

His _fault_ , _his_ fault. 

Their drivesuit is black —like their name.

Jirou always looks like thunder on a sunny day in it. Shishido has always liked that he does, the way people part to let him pass even though he’s nearly a head shorter than everybody present. They do so now and Shishido just trails after him meekly, radiating anxiety —like the second part of their name.

“Relax,” Jirou says, smiling wide as the two of them buckle into the motion rig. They haven’t managed to quite patch up and polish everything yet. The mangled seams inside the Conn-Pod pain him as much as the hairless chunk on his partner’s head. They’re just scars, he tells himself. Nothing wrong with a few scars. (Everything wrong with those scars, everything…) 

And besides, he is relaxed! He just doesn’t want Jirou out there again already. They had to poke around inside a hole in his head to try and fix things. And it’s just, Sheep -she looks just as bad. The hole in her hull is nearly in the exact same spot Jirou got injured and it’s like he failed them _both_. The helmet descends. 

The last thing he sees is Jirou’s bright smile.

*

“Alright, Black Sheep. Looking good,” Yuushi’s voice purrs over the comm-link. “Did you get a new haircut, Jirou?”

He can hear the latter ‘heeheehee!’ cheerfully. Shishido rolls his eyes. Yes, let’s trivialize near-fatal incidents. That is always funny.

“Don’t roll your eyes, Ryou,” Yuushi says, voice slow and knowing. Jirou giggles some more.

“Ha. Ha,” Shishido goes, cramming as much annoyance into the words as he can. “Fuck you, Oshitari.”

“You haven’t even taken me out to dinner yet.” Yuushi points out. “Do you think I am that easy?”

“Yes,” Shishido says.

Jirou is giggling so wildly he’s going to pass out.

“Gentlemen,” Tezuka interjects.

“My apologies, Captain,” Oshitari replies.

Liar.

The alarm sounds in the Conn-Pod.

`Neural bridge initializing`

Jirou gives him a thumbs-up. After a moment, Shishido mimics the gesture.

*

Drifting with Jirou is like coming home after a long, tiring day and slipping into your oldest, most comfortable hoodie.

are you thinking of me like worn clothes now _smelly old socks_ hey now that’s not nice _remember the way gakuto’s smelled when he came back after gym_ eeeeew he left them all over the place _so fucking gross_

The memory hangs there and they know it, but it passes by unexplored. The Drift is silence.

It is a bright sunny day and the sky goes on for miles over the rolling waves. They stand steady as they wait for the Jumphawks to release Golden Bazooka. Somewhere out there is a category III with their name on it.

This time.

This time he’ll get it right.

 _keep him safe_ ryou ryou no don’t why is everything such a drama with you _don’t say it_ worse than atobe _you fucking had to go and say it_ what do you expect when we’re battling alien monsters _never don’t care won’t let you get hurt again_ oh my god

Golden Bazooka throws up a plume of water as high as a skyscraper when she lands, crouching easily to catch the impact before standing golden and gleaming as she drips foamy ocean. Next to her Black Sheep is small, inconsequential, black hull catching the light strangely and reflecting the surroundings all skewed and wrong.

There’s a reason the public refers to them as The Mirage instead of Black Sheep.

When the Kaiju breaches, it’s huge. Codename: Bluefin.

Looks like exactly that, long and torpedo shaped, not much in the way of appendages to grasp their Jaegers with, but deadly as hell in the water. Of course, it goes right after Golden Bazooka.

Just as planned.

 _let’s get that bitch_ watch the tail dummy

The Kaiju lashes and flails just like a slippery fish, stumpy limbs trampling at empty air as they wrap themselves around it, squeezing hard to break and shatter and hoping Bazooka will get there _fast please_ geez this one is all muscle.

It slithers and both of them grope after it but then it is turning in on itself in a way spines are not supposed to bend oh god and snapping rows upon rows of teeth at them _FIRE CANNON NOW_

there’s nobody

Sheep locks up, goes utterly unresponsive and Shishido screams. White-hot pain sears into his skin until he can smell it -himself, his skin- burn as Black Sheep’s liquid-circuit neural architecture overloads. 

“JIROU!” he yells.

His co-pilot is limp in the motion rig. Just hanging.

“Shishido what the hell is going on there?” Oshitari demands urgently over the comm-link.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, he’s gone Yuushi he’s gone he’s not responding what do I do-?”

“Calm down, his vitals are strong, but there’s no response. Is his pons disconnected?”

“No he’s not moving-!”

“Whatever you do, Ryou, do not unhoo-“ Fuck that.

Shishido’s unhooking himself, ignoring Yuushi’s frustrated calls of his name. Ignores them even as Tezuka joins in, steady voice commanding him to buckle into the rig again _right this instant, Ranger_ -with what is, for Tezuka, a surprising amount of emotion. Jirou’s face is slack, wiped clear of any worry. Breathing even, eyes lidded heavily.

He looks like he’s— sleeping.

“Jirou,” he says, shaking his best friend gently by the shoulders.

Over the comm-link he can hear Oshitari and Tezuka begin to scream at him with urgency. Before he can even turn and ask what the hell their problem is, Black Sheep wrenches sideways sickeningly. Bluefin hit them. The impact is so violent Shishido’s thrown clear off his feet, smashing like so much flotsam into a control panel. Something cracks. The panel or his ribs or his neck, he doesn’t know.

All he knows is that Black Sheep is falling. Over and down and swallowed by the ocean.

Shishido doesn’t stay conscious long enough to be aware of drowning. Everything goes black and he follows Jirou down.

He doesn’t find him.

The Drift is empty.

*

When he wakes he’s in the med bay, battered, bruised and half-drowned. But alive. 

Jirou is in the cot next to him, breathing steadily. Besides bruises and some stitches, he seems in one piece. Shishido gets up —hissing through his teeth, those ribs are definitely broken, ow— and settles down next to his best friend. The latter hums in his sleep, eyes moving rapidly under his lids. Calms down when Shishido rests a hand on his shoulder.

That’s how Gakuto finds them an hour or two later.

“So,” he says, lightly leaping onto the foot of the bed. Draws his scrawny legs up -boots and all- and adjusts the goggles so his cherry red hair is out of his eyes. He looks like some punk that wandered in off the streets. Not too far from the truth, either. Not to mention he’s covered in grease, other unidentifiable stains and has a half-eaten candy bar sticking out of a pocket. None of which are very conductive to keeping a sterile environment, well. Sterile. Then again Gakuto is a walking health hazard even when fresh out of the shower and groomed to perfection.

“So,” Shishido repeats.

Gakuto’s eyes skip across Shishido’s face, slanted brows furrowing delicately, before settling on Jirou’s sleeping one.

“Tell me,” Shishido prompts. 

Instead of answering he fishes the candy bar out of his pocket and sticks it into his mouth. Lint and all.

Dammit. “I fucking _know_ you know, Gakuto,” he grits out softly.

“You’re not gonna like it,” Gakuto says muffled around the candy bar. His free hand nervously smoothes the sheets over Jirou’s lower legs.

“Tell me,” Shishido says. “Please.”

Sigh. Aimless shifting. Gakuto yanks off the goggles and drags a weary hand down his face. “She’s totalled man,” he whispers.

Shishido opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head. “I don’t-“

“Sheep’s fucking destroyed, alright?!” Gakuto yells. “She’s gone. I tried. We tried. The whole crew tried.”

Shishido looks at his childhood friend and doesn’t understand a word of what he’s saying. Wide, wet eyes stare right back at him desperately.

“I _tried_ , Ryou,” Gakuto repeats. “More than half of her is -is. Bluefin crushed her.”

“What are-“

“I could salvage most of the Mirage-Tech, but that means jack shit when there’s not enough left to-“

“Gakuto,” He interrupts, waving his hands and regretting it instantly as his ribs erupt in a dull, thudding ache. “What are you saying.”

“Black Sheep’s destroyed, Ryou,” Gakuto tells him. “It’s over.”

*

As god-awful as that fact is, it is nothing compared to what he feels when he gets the report on Jirou’s health.

Half of it is a whole lot of medical terminology he has no hopes of ever understanding, something about his hypothalamus malfunctioning which results in a severe case of narcolepsy.What it amounts to is that Jirou no longer qualifies as a Jaeger pilot because he’ll involuntarily fall asleep. And while there’s medication to help him, the risk is too great.

Without Black Sheep and Jirou, Shishido knows, he’s nothing. Not even a Ranger.

Shishido might’ve graduated from the academy covered in praise and brandishing near perfect scores -enough to have been handpicked by Atobe Keigo himself. The reality turned out to be that when it comes to Drifting with someone, the most crucial skill of all— well.

He’s unable to maintain a strong connection with anybody. Let alone one that _lasts_. Not with anybody.

Anybody but Jirou.

Yeah.

*

He’s not suspended. But he’s extra ballast nobody knows what to do with. A loose cannon.

Hiyoshi chases him out of the Kwoon by threatening to make an example out of him before the rookies. He’s banished from the kitchen before he even sets a foot inside. Hanging with Yuushi is funny right up until Tezuka shows up, he avoids Atobe like hell and decides he’s not bored enough to risk his chances going near the science labs no matter what.

After a week Gakuto goes mysteriously absent but for a few glimpses in the hallways. He appears more harried and dirtier than ever, but brimming with grim determination.

Shishido plays games of cards with Jirou, sits by him when he suddenly drops away -like someone flipped a switch. It is disconcerting. Keeps thinking of him slack and vulnerable inside Black Sheep, how lucky they are Golden Bazooka was able to kill Bluefin before it could get at the Conn pod.

Tells himself over and over how blessed they are to be alive, even if it doesn’t feel that way. He’d hate himself for not being happier Jirou’s alive, but it’s not that, of course he’s happy. It’s not that.

It’s—

Jirou bumps shoulders and Shishido knows he feels the same way.

He bumps back.

*

“Shishido.”

The reflexive _I didn’t do it_ flips onto the back of his tongue and is ready for liftoff even before he turns around to confront the Captain. Has to swallow it down convulsively and with quite some difficulty when he sees Tezuka is not alone. There are officials with him. Like all these people in custom-tailored suits, every last shred of largesse drained from them attempting to pursue it themselves under the nomenclature of financial regulation. Okay. Shit. Also: Mr. Moneybags himself, Atobe, is present. Double shit.

This cannot mean anything good.

Especially when taken into account his basically being, well, useless. Never a good thing for a Ranger to be. Not when they were specifically reared to be _assets_. Battle giant ferocious aliens, save cities, don’t do too much damage if they can help it; keep the world spinning for a day longer. Don’t die too much either, while they’re at it. Oh, and if possible, do the dance of good publicity and produce an awesome action figure. And here he stands wearing sweatpants, his favorite old Star Wars t-shirt with his hair braided in pigtails (Jirou was bored).

Yeah, okay. He’s in deep doo doo. 

“Captain?” he goes, spine straightening and chin going up as his heels snap together. 

Tezuka’s eyes jump over his person. Shishido thinks he witnesses the slightest tick at the corner of the Captain’s left eye as his scrutiny passes over the braids. Yes, well. They could’ve warned him! He’s not exactly _happy_ to find himself dropped into this social catastrophe. At all. Dislikes the way it makes him feel: small, vulnerable, lesser. Bare and unprotected and caught off-guard with Tezuka before him, arms crossed and lips flat -disapproving. _Disappointed_. Anger coils in his belly, taut and sharp. 

Behind Atobe -who stands there, hands at his hips and jaw angled at its most flattering angle, as if posing for a spread in a fashion magazine- is some tall paper-pusher in smooth slacks and a white a cashmere sweater. Looking at Shishido as though his very presence in Tokyo’s Shatterdome makes no sense at all. In this stilted, polite way, too. As soon as Shishido narrows his eyes at him he diverts his gaze towards the ground. Hypocrite. Can’t even meet him head-on. Bah.

Shishido decides he likes this asshole least of all. Also he has dumb white hair. So there.

Tezuka is motionless. Atobe shifts his weight smoothly as lips slide into a fleeting, sly smile. Then one of the tall-and-morbid assholes in a penguin suit oozes forward and says:

“We are appointing you a new co-pilot.”

The words hang in the air, heavy. Shishido stares at the space they occupy suspiciously, brows drawing together. Mr. Penguin purses his lips like a constipated old lady’s asshole. As though terribly put-upon for having to deal with someone so deliberately obtuse. That’s when the paper-pusher steps forward. Bows.

“It is an honor to meet you, Shishido-san.”

And Shishido stares at the top of that head -covered in silvery white hair and perfect, unmarked, flawless and he just -he just.

no

NO

“Excuse me?” the executive says.

“Shishido,” Atobe says, warningly.

“You fucking heard me,” he says.

Doesn’t repeat himself, either. Just flicks his eyes dismissively over the whole ensemble and gets the fuck out of there.

*

“Can’t hide in there forever, Ryou!”

“Watch me,” Shishido whispers.

Yet finds himself standing up, leaving the warm nest he made on his bed to shuffle over to the door. Because. Well, because. It’s Jirou who is calling his name, Jirou who he can feel lean into the door, forehead pressing against the battered metal. It hurts. Hurts hurts hurts because he’s never had a Drift hangover with Jirou, never. (why not, why not, our neural handshake works, doesn’t it, it exists, doesn’t it, have had him in my head and been in his so why don’t we get to know what it feels like, like the other pilots, why not??)

(why now)

So he opens the door and he opens his arms and Jirou slots into his embrace like he always has and it _echoes_.

Echoes all wrong because Black Sheep is gone. It’s just the two of them.

“He’s good for you,” Jirou says into his shirt. They’re just standing in the middle of his room with the door wide-open. “I can tell.”

No. Just no. No. He can’t. Can’t can’t can’t.

“Yes, you can,” Jirou answers, hands going hard and knotting in the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t even say anything. 

No, he really, really can’t. He’s better than everybody out there and Atobe knows it. His is all raw talent. There are numbers on paper saying that he is, proving that he is, and he’s got no fucking intention at all to have to go and prove it all over to some rich brat who had all the hard work done for him. Shishido never was particularly good at anything, but he was born to be a Ranger and he worked for it, worked for it because the majority of the skills and knowledge presented to him at the Academy weren’t _easy_. Not for him. So he didn’t sleep and worked and tried and tried and tried and didn’t allow himself to fail and succeeded because he was the fucking best.

Highest scores ever.

And he worked for every single one of those numbers on his file.

(and then he couldn’t Drift)

(no)

(yes)

“I can tell,” Jirou repeats, voice shaking, “that he is a good match for you.”

“You didn’t even see him,” Shishido answers, out loud this time. His nose is against the bald spot, against the thick worming ridge of scar tissue. Feels like it is not a part of him.

(shouldn’t have to be)

“I spoke to him,” Jirou sighs. “Ryou.”

“Don’t ask me to,” Shishido whispers. “Please.”

“Ryou, you have to try.”

*

 

so shishido tries

because jirou asked him to

 

*

No, really. He does. 

Shishido tries really, really hard. All the way to the Kwoon, even. Trying the hardest he can even with his co-pilot already shadowing him perfectly and even if it feels like walking into the Shatterdome all over, geared up with Black Sheep greeting them. But then he sees this -this guy (Totori? No, that’s from a cartoon, isn’t it? Whatever. Who cares.) talking to Hiyoshi and Hiyoshi is _smiling_ and everything in Shishido’s head screeches to a stop and collapses into a maelstrom of _get away from him he’s the enemy!_  

“Down boy,” Jirou mumbles.

“I didn’t say anything!” Shishido protests.

“Didn’t need to.”

Why is Hiyoshi smiling? So wrong. Hiyoshi is supposed to be unflappable, too collected for his own good, too serious for everybody else’s. Wronger still, is that this- this whatshisname _towers_ over him. Both him and Hiyoshi. Over everybody, even, except maybe Kabaji. All that matters is that he towers over Shishido and Shishido absolutely loathes the way the other looks down his nose at him.

“Shishido-san,” he acknowledges him.

Shishido’s mouth fights around all the words he really shouldn’t say (it’ll never be you). Jirou pinches the soft skin at the small of his back, right where it flows towards his side and has enough padding to actually be pinched. Behave.

Fine, fine. 

“Lets get this over with,” he hisses through locked jaws.

Shishido walks onto the mat, feet bare and hands behind his head as he twists his hair into a ponytail. Keeps his eyes downcast until he sees a flash of movement -catches the hanbō Hiyoshi just threw him easy. At the other side: Rich Kid. Taller than him, heavier than him, younger than him. All of which amounts to exactly jackshit. He’ll show this twerp what it means to be a Ranger. What it means to step into a Jaeger and face a blue horizon hiding an invisible enemy with the lives of a million people at your back.

Shishido tips his head: _come at me, kid_.

Of course, as expected, the dumb shit just circles. Courteously extending the first strike to him. Oh god. Whatever. Shishido darts in. Block. Right-foot-cross-step and in again, hanbō up-and-over into reverse swipe and- block. Okay. That’s cute. Again, then. More where that came from. They circle. The other’s face is serious, but seemingly removed. Asshole. Shishido lashes at him, a sudden swipe meant to get under his guard (so many places to hit, so tall, huge damn target— you sucker) and _fuck it_! Blocked again.

Hissing an exhale out through his teeth, he steps back, circles the other way. “So that’s it?” he demands. “All you’re going to do is block?”

Academy brat follows him, steady. “I will stop blocking when you will, senpai.” And then— this little smile.

Ooooh, it is _on_. Shishido twirls his hanbō fast enough it becomes a humming blur. Kid’s got endless legs, so Shishido goes for those, lashing out fast as a snake. Block. Dammit dammit. 

And then it’s just this endless dance that never begins: parry, parry, block, deflect and Shishido can feel himself shake with anger because people are watching and he cannot touch this _boy_. Everything beyond their circle recedes, inconsequential in the face of their deadlock. It is just Shishido and his not co-pilot, cracking sticks together over and over, never touching beyond that even though he tries. He _tries_. He wants this smug asshole on the ground at his feet, but his hanbō goes clack and the muscles in his opponent’s arm stand out like steel cables under pale skin. He never attacks.

Simply blocks him time and time again, bringing him up short and scattering him like waves crashing into a cliffside. And like water on rock, Shishido might wear him down over time, but time is always the one thing they never have enough of. Their breaths ring hard in his ears, peppered by the sharp smacks of their hanbō.

Why?

Shishido looks at the brown eyes of his not co-pilot and sees himself.

And then he’s suddenly on his back, air whoofing out of his lungs as he crashes into the mat. His ribs sting. The other stands over him, hanbō levelled at his chest and breathing hard, haloed by muted artificial light. Shishido didn’t even see him move.

“You stopped blocking,” he says softly.

Trembling, Shishido pushes himself away from under that accusing length of tempered wood, heels kicking himself backwards. Stands up. 

Leaves.

*

His name is Choutarou.

Shishido doesn’t know how he knows that.

*

Over the course of the next days Shishido slips like a shade through the facilities, much like Black Sheep did through the water (no stop. _Gone_. His girl is gone). Has no intention at all to deal with this. Any of it: the scornful stares, the questions, the whispers stalking him wherever he shows his face. Failed again. Always failing. 

Shishido has an old Nintendo, so he lies on his bed and plays until the battery dies. Pouts at the ceiling remembering he left the charger at Jirou’s. Re-reads some comics. Re-re-reads them again. Reenacts some of his favourite Star Wars scenes with a plastic lightsaber. Braids his own hair. Bounces a tennis ball against the wall by himself, lulling himself with the hollow _twocks_ as it repetitively ricochets into the metal wall.

What Shishido most definitely does not do is reach for his laptop. Nor does he type in ‘Jaeger Program’ and ‘Choutarou’.

And he most certainly does not spend the rest of the night poring through all the resulting hits.

*

“His last co-pilot died,” Shishido says.

Gakuto swallows the gum he was chewing. Hacks convulsively. Shishido doesn’t pat him on the back. Jirou rolls his eyes and does so instead.

“You could’ve told me,” he adds, as soon as he’s pretty sure Gakuto is not about to expire on the spot and add yet another item to ‘things Shishido fucked up royally’: fail to Drift -check. Crash Jaeger and manage to permanently impair co-pilot -double check. Crash Jaeger yet again -check. Fail to put Mr. Fancy Pants in his place -urgh, check. Oh, and murder his childhood friend. CHECK.

“We would have,” Gakuto wheezes, “but you were hiding in your room like a total pussy.”

“You don’t understand,” Shishido protests.

“That’s right! I _don’t_ ,” Gakuto snaps, lip curling. Pauses to breathe. Wipes the back of his arm across his mouth, eyes going narrow as he side-eyes Shishido. “Like, you go out and kick giant alien ass, right? But this dumb kid scares the shit out of you.”

“I’m not-“

“Yes, you are,” Jirou says. 

“No, I am not,” Shishido presses.

“Everybody could see it,” Gakuto adds. Helpfully reminding Shishido that oh hey remember all those important people watching you get your veteran ass get kicked by a rookie? “Sweating like a damn horse as you were.”

“Thank you, Gakuto,” Jirou says. You know: _please_ _shut up_.

“What? I’m just sayin’,” the redhead mutters, swinging himself up and onto one of the guardrails. Perches there like a sassy robin. There’s a ninety-meter drop behind him.

The three of them stand together in silence for a moment, Gakuto fishing a new piece of gum out of a pocket and popping it into his gob because he never learns. Jirou is doing his sunny thundercloud thing even without the damn drivesuit.

“Ryou,” he says.

“I don’t want him in my head,” Shishido hisses at him. “My co-pilot is standing right before me.”

And, oh. Why did he say that? Because Jirou’s face does this- this _crumple_ that says more than having brushed and melded minds. He grew up with this boy -and with Gakuto- three brats stuck in an orphanage because giant monster aliens decided to play hacky sack with their planet. This is his best friend. This is co-pilot. This is family. 

“Not anymore,” Jirou says, voice hoarse. “Stupid.”

All he wants is to hold _protect mine mine mine yours let you get hurt so sorry_ but if he reaches out now Jirou will kick his insensitive ass. God, he’s such a bastard. 

“Yeah okay,” Gakuto says, lurching up and standing suspended on the rail for a heartbeat before leaping down lightly. His boots barely make any sound shitting the gridded metal walkway. “Shit sucks, I know. Jirou knows, you know. Glad we talked it out, now wipe your noses and follow me.” -he spins on his heel, walking backwards and grinning like a lunatic- “I got something cool to show you guys.”

*

“My baby,” Shishido whimpers.

At his side Jirou’s hand shoots out and grips Shishido’s bicep, clenching hard enough to bruise. The other is clapped over his own mouth, eyes wide above the mask of his fingers as he looks up at-

“Tadaa!” Gakuto shrills, flinging both arms wide and doing jazz hands. 

Shishido stares, jaw slack in the way only abject terror can do.

It’s Black Sheep but _not_. Which is most jarring of all. She’s there in the strong line of her limbs, her brawler’s build— and that’s where the likeness ends. He knows there was nearly nothing left of her. It seems they scraped together what precious little they could and merged it with another decommissioned Jaeger. He doesn’t _want_ to be impressed by how well everything lines up, matches, works as a whole -the stunning expertise needed to achieve such a feat- because she’s nearly three stories taller now. 

That’s not his girl.

Even the salvaged Mirage-Tech is different (he doesn’t want to think better, nothing can ever be better than his little Sheep). Instead of sleek oily deception, he’s faced with swirling mercury. Instead of merely bouncing her surroundings back she now absorbs it, retrains it, warps it until she fades into her background. Instead of Black Sheep, he’s looking at a stranger.

“… What?” Gakuto goes, arms flopping lifelessly to his side.

“Gakuto,” Jirou begins, hesitantly.

“That’s not our girl,” Shishido growls. It’s not. Shit. Fuck. How could he? How could he use what was left from her as _scrap metal_ to pimp out some other Jaeger? How dare he? Teeth bared, he looks over at Gakuto. Finds him baring his teeth right back at them.

“She was mine, too, asshole!” Gakuto yells. “I worked and cared for her for years, patched her up when you two were done messing around! She was always fucked up, because lets face it: you two were only half the pilots you could’ve been.”

It’s like a slap in his face. Shishido can feel it travel from the top of his head, down along his spine. Splash into his gut cold and thick. Next to him Jirou echoes the shudder.

“That’s right,” Gakuto nods, face fierce and pained. “I said it. Nobody’ll ever doubt that you two love each other but you’re not properly Drift-compatible. Your neural handshake is spazzy as hell and your reaction time is dismal and the worst part is that it should never have worked at all in the first place, but you two idiots are both so stubborn and devoted to each other that it _did_. Gods help us, it did. And look at you now.

“I took what was left from her and gave her a second chance. A second chance you spit in the face, Ryou, because of your dumb hang-ups. So please. Take that attitude and shove it up your ass because I am not sorry at all!”

By the end of it, there are clear tracks streaking the grime on Gakuto’s face. He’s small and shaking and weighs maybe a hundred pounds dripping wet, but Shishido can feel himself shrink into his own shoulders nonetheless. He says not a word and neither does Jirou.

Gakuto does this scoff, fisting at the wetness on his cheeks as he whirls and stalks off.

The silence left in his departure is deafening, despite the constant hubbub of hundreds of people milling through the bay like ants. 

“Well,” Jirou breathes out. Shishido tips his head towards him questioningly. “Don’t you hate it when he’s right?” he says, before walking away, too.

Shishido stands alone in the hanger and doesn’t know anything at all.

*

Hours later, Ohtori finds him there, sitting on the filthy floor crisscross applesauce and staring up at the massive robot, trying to make sense of what he’s feeling. Long legs appear in his periphery of his vision, covered in immaculate slacks.

“They didn’t even ask,” Ohtori says softly. “I was transferred whether I wished to or not. Had to leave everything behind, everybody I knew, my family, my friends, my” -a high thrum of pain- “well. Yet they snuck her in behind my back, took her apart and turned her inside out.”

Shishido draws his knees firmer against his front, winds his arms tighter around his legs, tucks his chin in. “What was she called?”

“Silver Cascade,” Ohtori breathes as though entrusting him with a sweetheart’s name.

He snorts. “It’s Silver Mirage now.”

Didn’t even use her name, her real name. Godammit.

“I’ve been deployed two times,” Ohtori says. “But when Taki-san died it was like losing a limb.”

Slowly, stiff and aching from sitting on the cold floor, Shishido gets to his feet. Stretches until he feels every vertebra of his spine pop, arms rising above his head like a cat. Rolls a shoulder and meets Ohtori’s curious gaze frankly. “My co-pilot is in this building right now,” he tells him. “And it is not you.”

A line appears between the other’s brows (dark, but light hair -how does that even work?). “We are not being given a choice, Shishido-senpai.”

*

Ohtori is right about that.

Two days later a Category IV comes through the Breach and heads for Tokyo at mind-baffling speed.

The alarms of Tokyo’s Shatterdome are these high, panicky wails that have always set Shishido’s teeth on edge. He’s rolling out of bed, grabbing the first shirt he can find and jamming his feet into his sneakers before it has properly dawned on him they are in deep shit. Then he’s careening into the hallway —and nearly into Echizen Ryoma, who’s sauntering towards the LOCCENT at a leisurely pace, as though heading for a mandatory Yoga session. His co-pilot orbits around him like a veritable whirlwind of _Koshimae! Koshimae!_  

He’s carried along like a piece of debris in the current of people streaming en masse towards the elevator. They pack together into it like sardines and Shishido finds his nose wedged nearly into Momoshiro’s armpit. Not one of most fragrant places to be around, _uuuuurgh_. 

They crowd together into the LOCCENT, trying to stay out of the way of the personnel and technicians swarming over the command systems. He spots a golden blond head, tries to inch towards it. Somehow finds himself next to Ohtori instead. Really. Really?

But then Tezuka’s lips part to take a breath and everybody goes so quiet so fast you’d be able to hear a pin drop. 

“We are under imminent threat of a Category IV. It is estimated to make landfall at about zero eight hundred hours. We are clearing the immediate area as efficiently as we can, as well as evacuating civilians and directing them to shelters,” Tezuka concludes, nodding at Yuushi.

Oshitari perches his elbows on the armrests of his chair, steeples his fingers with precision. He looks like a villain and when he opens his mouth it only gets worse (it always gets worse). “Codename: Corsair. Our little friend appears to be mostly bipedal, although we cannot confirm this as long as it is traveling through the water. It is the largest Kaiju we have faced to date, which we have elected to answer by deploying two of our own.”

Technically they have five operational Jaegers at the Tokyo Shatterdome; thanks to Atobe. Atobe began funding them about five years ago, when the Jaeger program stood for hope and victory against all odds. Which it still stands for -any person with half a functioning brain can see. Yet resources have been dwindling, especially as present Kaiju-encounters go paired with the destruction of a Jaeger, as well as a new addition to Oblivion Bay (if there’s enough to be recovered). The program is failing, is the hearsay. Atobe, for all his airs, is loyal to their cause (and his foolish hope to get into Tezuka’s tighty-whities… but that is another story that will never be told, thank the gods). And even though Atobe must be flirting with going bankrupt by continuing to finance them so extensively, he simply does. And while ‘cushy, extra-absorbent toilet paper’ is not quite the priority Atobe makes it out to be, his aid factors into the incredible blessing of having so many Jaegers at their disposal.

Out of five, three are ready for immediate combat. Super Rookie’s circuits fried during the standard neural handshake test procedure. ( _there’s four_ , his heart says)

(no)

Tezuka takes over again.

“Golden Bazooka and Burning Phoenix, suit up. You will confront Corsair and stop it at the Miracle Mile. Rising Serpent, be prepared to provide support if required. Let us pray it is not,” Tezuka instructs, calm and collected with his arms crossed and expression placid. Atobe stands at his right, fingers hooked into the pockets of his designer slacks with casual elegance. Oshitari oozes smugness from where he’s draped in his chair. Shishido thinks he’s never seen a more unlikely triumvirate of power, but it somehow seems to work.

And then Kawamura shouts: “BURNING GREAT-O KAIJU!“ whilst empathically waving a brawny arm and nearly knocking Horio’s teeth out. He misses, though. More’s the pity.

Fuji smiles and pats his bicep. “Hai, hai, Taka-san,” he agrees.

“Oishi! Let’s mince this sucker into chow for your fishies, nya?” Kikumaru balls a fist.

“Of course,” his partner says, nodding. “It will be done, Tezuka.”

Nobody even so much as mentions the fourth Jaeger ready to be deployed. 

*

There’s nothing as frustrating as standing around _watching_ when there’s a Kaiju encounter.

And for the longest time, it is all they do, eyes riveted on the displays over the top of Oshitari’s dark head. The silence is tense and hushed. Shishido witnesses the day break and spill light across the water as the sun rises through one of the camera feeds. Golden Bazooka is gorgeous, alive and bright like kindled embers. Burning Phoenix is unassuming, all duns, but then she revs up to stock power and the crevices below her heavy plates twinkle multicolored sparkles that dazzle.

Show-offs. He finds himself smiling.

It doesn’t feel real. Like this is all just a movie. Yet there’s cold sweat at the back of neck.

Jirou stands next to him, dressed in standard military cargos and a tank top so worn it’s turned gray rather than white. He didn’t put on any shoes. Shishido tries to choke down the gut-instinct to take off his own and insist he put them on. Also tries to stop himself from inching closer, just because. Well. Because. Can’t stop himself from going all warm-fond at the sight of Jirou’s hair all poofed up like a dandelion from sleep.

Ohtori, for once, looks human. His hair is on end and there’s a pillow crease on his cheek still. Dressed in jogging pants and a long sleeved t-shirt that stretches over his broad shoulders, he looks a lot more approachable. A silver cross winks around his neck.

Momo is yawning unabashedly, while Kaidoh glowers mutinously - _cover your mouth you big ugly ape_ , but he, too, is rumpled around the edges. Echizen and Kin-chan -yeah. Probably wearing each other’s clothes. Lets just leave it at that.

Oshitari is wearing a bow tie. Tezuka is in full regalia. Atobe hasn’t got a hair out of place. Shishido has always nurtured the suspicion they are actually robots. 

And then Oshitari purrs: “Show time.”

All of them push closer towards the main monitor. The ocean’s surface curves up, before exploding upwards like a geyser. Something rises up. Rises. Up and up, surrounded by a cloud of sparkling droplets dyed rose as the sun inches into the sky. 

“Holy shit,” Momo breathes. 

“ _Fffshhhuuuu_ ,” Kaidoh goes.

“That’s so not okay,” Kintarou says. “So so so not okay.”

Ohtori lifts a long fingered hand to his lips. Shishido finds his own twitching at his side, about to copy the gesture. Fuck. Exhale. Ohtori exhales, too. God, fuck. Damn it. Jirou raises a brow at him and Shishido’d shove him, if there wasn’t a big alien monster about to go to town on his comrades. And, gods, is it _big_. The distinction between categories has never been so pronounced. 

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he growls. Jirou and Ohtori nod.

Fuji’s soft voice crackles over the feed: “LOCCENT are you seeing this?”

“Riveted,” Oshitari drawls. 

“Are Inui and Yanagi there?”

“Yes,” Inui says.

“Yes,” Yanagi says.

“HOLY SHIT!” Momo shrieks, leaping into Kaidoh’s arms.

When did they even get there? Whatever, never mind, creepy fuckers.

“First impression?” Fuji asks.

“ _Big_ ,” Inui and Renji say in unison.

“Our scientists, ladies and gentlemen,” Oshitari says with a sigh. “And Kaiju, of course. Wouldn’t want to be rude.” 

“It’s just standing there,” Kaidoh interjects.

He’s right. Corsair is most definitely bipedal, forelimbs spindly and tucked at its chest. Peculiarly hooked, likely made for grasping. It is strangely lacking in anything so much resembling a neck or throat, nor did it seem to come equipped with a mouth. The top of its head is differently textured, spongy almost, with two bulbous eyes at either side. It’s long and lean, with a squat, stumpy tail that looks entirely out of place on its sleek body.

“Oh my, what a beauty,” Oshitari remarks idly. “Be still my heart.”

“If you fail to do you job, Oshitari, that may just be true soon enough,” Atobe says cattily.

“LOCCENT what do we do?” Oishi wants to know. “Do we engage?” 

Before Tezuka can even think of answering him, Corsair tips its head in a rather entomic gesture. And - _springs_. Not fluid like a mammal, it just— it’s too fast for him to see. It barrels straight into Burning Phoenix, but Kawamura and Fuji rock with it, absorbing the impact. There’s a prismatic swirl under the Jaeger’s heavy armor as its right arm shifts, becoming flat and paddle-shaped. Within seconds a hot, burning grid glows to life at the widest part. Burning Phoenix shoves it into Corsair.  

“BURNING!” Kawamura howls.

And it is. Acrid smoke curls out of the wound as they push in deeper. Corsair howls and scrabbles at them. The limbs appear to be serrated and strike sparks as they glance off the heavy metal. The screams are high-pitched and furious. It isn’t hurting. It is pissed off. Where is it screaming _from_? Blue gore sprays as Phoenix yanks out the blade. Corsair’s stumpy tail lashes angrily, it looks utterly ridiculous, or would have hadn’t it been for the ominous high-pitched chittering. 

“That’s a big wound,” Momo remarks approvingly.

“I rather suspect—” Renji says.

“—that that is not a wound,” Inui finishes. 

There’s a slick slit from the top of its head all the way down to the middle of it’s belly. It oozes blue copiously, drooling down its own body. Inside, things move.

“Oh gods,” Oshitari hisses. “Phoenix watch o-“

The Kaiju splits, flowering open as the edges of the slice fold outward. Inside it teems with skinmites, burrowing within the bleeding furrows of flesh Corsair houses them in, growing agitated as they are exposed. Before it can launch itself at Phoenix, Golden Bazooka grabs it by the tail and hauls it closer. 

“Here kitty, kitty,” they can hear Eiji sing over the comm-link. 

What nobody expects is for Corsair to duck under water smoothly, exposed gash still wide-open and spilling skinmites everywhere before it disappears from view. Golden Bazooka still has hold of the tail.

“WATCH OUT!” Shishido yells on pure instinct, pushing towards the monitor. Ohtori catches him around the waist, hauls him back easy. Jirou is holding his arm.

Too late. Always too late.

The ocean boils ominously around Bazooka. The chittering continues. The water is ridden with skinmites like a diabolical soup. And then there’s the shriek of metal. In less than half a beat of Shishido’s heart, Golden Bazooka pitches to one side like a felled tree. The agonized screams of Oishi and Kikumaru over comm-link, distorted by static, is the stuff of nightmares.

“Took her leg off,” Oshitari manages, feebly. 

“Oishi,” Tezuka implores. Then more anxiously: “ _Oishi_!”

“The skinmites are attempting to gain access to the interior of the Jaeger,” Inui points at the screen where multiple dots are flowing over the holo of Golden Bazooka like maggots -right where the truncated limb is. 

“These are not ordinary skinmites,” Yanagi supplies. “More like specially devised parasites. I predict they will attempt to burrow towards the Conn-Pod and eliminate the pilots.”

“At the rate Bazooka is sinking, I highly doubt they will-“ Oshitari begins, but Atobe swats him over the back of his head, silencing him deftly. Tezuka has gone as pale as ghost. 

On screen, Corsair disengages, turns towards Burning Phoenix. Despite the excruciating pain, Kikumaru and Oishi hold their Drift, frantically initiating self-repair protocols and rerouting power from nonessential systems. Brave, admirable, everything one would expect from the famous Golden Pair. They will be steadfast and disciplined to the last— and everybody present in LOCCENT could see the last was coming much, much too soon. 

Golden Bazooka was slowly but surely disappearing under the water. She was sinking. The parasites persisted nonetheless. It was merely a question of which would succeed in killing Kikumaru and Oishi first: the ocean or the aliens.

“No,” Echizen says. In that moment he looks terribly young, face wiped blank with disbelief.

“Phoenix do not engage Corsair in hand-to-hand combat,” Yuushi is instructing, “I repeat-“

“Momo, Kaidoh,” Tezuka says. They’re already marching off. 

And then, over the comm-link: “Nya, Oishi, seems like we won’t get to go out for ice-cream after all.”

“I’m sorry, Eiji.”

“Don’t be sorry, egghead! I am glad to be here with you.”

It is hushed, private, sharing the sound of their voices for mere comfort. The Conn-Pod feed begins to flicker erratically.

“No!” Echizen says more emphatically. 

“Ryoma,” Kintarou murmurs, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“What do you suggest we do?” Atobe bites at the youngest of their pilots.

On screen, Corsair swipes at Burning Phoenix, forcing them back, and advances forward itself— entering the Miracle Mile.

“I’ll tell you what,” Echizen says, nearly touching noses with Atobe as he leans in to stare him down. “There’s a perfectly fine Jaeger ready to be deployed in the bay. Let us take her to rip that damn Kaiju to shreds.”

Silence. Atobe swallows. Echizen’s lip curls up. Tezuka opens his mouth.

For the first time in his life, Shishido interrupts the Captain. “Oi, is that my damn Jaeger you are talking about?!”

Echizen cuts his eyes sideways, considers him for a moment. “Silver Mirage is perfectly operational, me and Tooyama can handle her easy,” he says, dangerously silky soft.

“And fry her circuits, too?” Shishido scoffs. “Yeah, I don’t fucking think so.”

“You don’t even have a co-pilot,” Echizen fires back. “Sorry, Akutagawa-san,” he adds, under his breath. Jirou flaps a distracted hand in response, brown eyes trained in dismay on the screen as Golden Bazooka lists even further. 

Shishido breathes in, a shallow gasp. His heart stalls, aches. _Jirou_. 

Yuushi’s monitors flicker, spelling a horrific stop-motion picture of Kikumaru and Oishi delaying the inevitable by mere seconds, simply because that’s what a Ranger does. Discipline, even in the face of certain death. Jirou is backlighted by the nightmarish gleam, now looking straight at him. He nods, swallowing, and Shishido nods, too.

“Choutarou,” the name comes easy, as though it had been waiting at the back of his throat.

“Yes,” Ohtori says.

*

“Oh my god,” Gakuto squeaks. His goggles are on backwards and his hair is wet with sweat. The crew swarms all over the Silver Mirage as they disconnect machinery and cables, pinch in some last-minute adjustments.

Jirou shushes him tersely.

Shishido rolls his bottom lip under, exhales slowly. He’s never been stuffed into drivesuit so speedily. It’s still a little stiff, never used, pinches at his skin here and there. It does not escape him both were tailored precisely with him and Ohtori in mind. It is an oily black with silver accents, the crests of the Tokyo Shatterdome emblazoned proudly on both shoulder pads. Ohtori looks, well, _dangerous_ in his. Tall, the width of his chest pronounced, especially with the addition of the armor over his pectorals. His legs go on for miles. He walks with his chin held high.

It’s all he can do to try and breathe evenly.

“Oh my god,” Gakuto goes again, all but scooping Shishido along and herding him into the Conn-Pod, vibrating with pent up tension and gleeful excitement. “Oh my god, shit fuck crap, oh my god. I never got to talk you through her new tricks.”

“Don’t worry, Mukahi-san,” Ohtori pipes up politely. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Right,” Shishido manages faintly.

_Where is Jirou?_

Hands slip into his hair. “You forgot a hair tie,” Jirou says softly.

Ohtori steps onto the motion rig. No time, there’s never enough time. Oh god. “Jirou,” he manages, throat thick, but then technicians are nudging them apart, driving him towards the rig, too.

“I know,” Jirou says. The helmet descends. 

The last thing he sees is Jirou’s bright smile.

*

`Neural bridge initializing`

*

Oshitari starts the countdown: “Initiating neural handshake in ten… nine…”

Next to him, within reach, Ohtori lets out a choppy exhale. At least Shishido isn’t the only one about to shit an ice-cold brick made from pure distilled fear. Even as detestable as the idea had been to let this stranger into his head, even more horrific is the idea they might be too late.

“Six… five…”

Shishido clears his throat. “We’ll make it in time,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

“Three… two…”

“I was never worried,” Ohtori says.

Shishido looks at him, nonplussed.

“One…” Yuushi says.

*

Crying. Two boys, cheeks wet and hunkering down, one has arms wrapped protectively around his head, the other flat in the dirt, not getting up again. Both small and scrawny. One head blond, the other red. Older kids always pick on them, push them down, make them cry, _hey stop that leave them alone_. Knuckles hurt. The big boy is crying, nose a bloody smear. Blood on his knuckles, too.  
the ruler raps down on his knuckles, drawing a line of fiery, white-hot pain into his skin _messed up again the instructor hisses insidiously always messing up not what the sheet says is it saying apologizes even when he feels that no no no the music tells him differently chin up smile and apologize anyway it is easier it is what they want (play it his way later)  
_ Cold at night. Jirou cries in his sleep, big clear tracks that are completely silent. Shishido sees because he’s always awake. Had a big brother and a little sister, maybe he misses them had a big brother too gone now gone can’t remember maybe looked like him maybe nothing like him at all Jirou is nothing like him at all that’s okay they can be brothers  
 _Gakuto can be the little sister he’ll tell him later laughing_  

_He wonders if she’s happy never called again how long too long Nee-chan I only wanted to protect you Jaeger program is failing you are failing no future but a useless death and a tacky action figure to remember you by better ways to get our attention_

Shishido breathes in  
Ohtori breathes out

Sleek brown hair _nothing like his_ fine soft hands _hello Ohtori-kun_

Taki-san  
Jirou

Their consciousness overlaps, overlaps again. Ghosts, truths, memories reach and tumble into the other’s minds, rubbing sides like great sleek cats. 

_Family_

_so patient would never yell always called mom dad nee-chan never call_  
 _so annoying at times remember the first time in his head he in mine familiar safe  
_ _knew it was you_

Jirou running down a hill, during a rare field trip organized by the orphanage, blond hair brighter than the sun _faster Ryou faster faster he’s always faster ahead of him easy but always waiting never leave you behind_

sorry I am not him

no don’t don’t don’t 

I understand

 _know you do didn’t know before_ family _yes_ yes _Taki_ hurts where he was _I know_ know you do never better always gone can feel Jirou **_here_**

There. Still there. Never gone. 

 _sunny thundercloud thing_ ah does he really make that face _only when I am being stupid_ must be all the time _HEY_ so stubborn

Tall. Remote. Rich Academy brat.

true true except for the brat part _remains to be seen_ bet you’re the brat acted like one _feisty_ my apologies _am in your head Choutarou not sorry at all no secrets now_

None.

_you were right I was so angry (scared)_

Warmth. Shishido could’ve sworn Ohtori reached out and touched him nowhere everywhere under his skin behind the haze of his eyes the edges of him the centre of his self

please don’t be

_not anymore_

*

 

music

 

*

“My, my,” Oshitari murmurs. “Aren’t we getting along. Neural handshake at one hundred percent. It is flawless.” 

Perfect superimposition. 

Jirou wipes wetness from his cheek with the heel of his hand, smiling.

*

“Silver Mirage can you hear me?” 

Yuushi’s leer appears up close and personal in the holo.

“Back off a little Yuushi, shit,” Shishido snaps. “And trim your nose hair.”

“Charming,” Yuushi shoots back. “We will have to talk again about the merits of body hair when your voice finally breaks, Ryou-chan.”

“That’s cute, you ass,” Shishido responds and his hands reaches -Ohtori does the same. Swipe through the menus together, call up several interfaces. “And turn off that music! It’s really not the time for that sorta shit, don’t you think?” 

“Ryou,” Yuushi goes, voice soft and trailing away questioningly. A brow arches. “There is no music.”

What?

_The Drift is silence._

I’m sorry

The cadence is soft and organic, liquid tense and vibrating. Shishido knows nothing about music, not really, listens to rock himself. This is classical, isn’t? Only, no. It is not, it is unlike any instrument he’s ever heard, but the pacing and construction of it is, sweeping light and delicate before scattering into a fierce crescendo that rains upon his mind like a storm’s first drops of rain on a punishing hot summer day.

It is beautiful.

Silver Mirage jostles as the Jumphawks bear them over the ocean, first towards the captivating swirl of prismatic light advancing before bioluminescent blue. Mirage’s feet are sprayed with surf as Rising Serpent is let go, hits the water and is running to aid their comrades even before the cloud of water has settled. They leave the spectacle behind, passing it by undisturbed and towards a barely visible glint of gold in the distance.

There’s nothing from LOCCENT, they have been left to file through interactive menus at top speed, absorbing as much info as they can, before having to put it into use. The music plays on. There’s nobody there but Silver Mirage and them.

“Is that you?” Shishido breathes out loud, voice cracking in disbelief.

“I didn’t expect-“ Ohtori begins, sounding wretched and conflicted and ashamed. “Taki-san never heard it.”

Within his chest there’s a bright, sweet pain. He’s touching feeling _hearing_ Ohtori’s mind.

It is beautiful.

“It’s always there in the Drift,” Ohtori admits. “For me.”

God. Shishido stills, draws his psyche into his sense of self. There’s nothing in his Drift, clear and pure, ready for anything his co-pilot has to offer. But no, not true, lies, couldn’t Drift because even though his control on his memories is excellent, his ability to work in synch with another was dismal, never wanted anybody there, never wanted anybody to see, didn’t trust anybody _dead gone only him now has to do it himself did it himself pure willpower nobody will ever match it nobody will ever understand weak feeble distracted as they are and they didn’t they didn’t why can’t he Drift nothing to hide so much to hide hurts hurts keeping him down it hurts how long how many of them_

The memory plucks at him, snapping angry teeth at the heels of his Drift, Shishido breathes in. Ohtori breathes in. Can feel where he begins and ends, where Ohtori begins and ends, both holding themselves together like a bubble of soap, perfect but delicate.

Exhale together. Their minds expand. Don’t pop so much as merge, one clear spherical entity. Instead of swirling colors on the surface, there’s the music.  

Shishido smiles and Ohtori tinkles clear notes back at him. 

“I could get used to this,” Shishido tells him.

*

Only the crest of Golden Bazooka’s head is visible.

Shishido and Ohtori march over to her, weary of the parasites bobbing in the waves like curled millipedes. Some of them uncurl feebly as the lapping waves of their passage stirs them into unsteady motion, but none latch on. Do they even realize they are there? The reflection in the water shows them ephemeral and fluent, there-and-not, like heat waves undulating over the pavement on a hot day. They pass unmolested.

“Oishi, Eiji, can you hear me?” he asks. Nothing but static feedback. Please. Please let them not be too late. “Oishi, Eiji,” he repeats.

“Shis—do —s th— you?”

His heart is in his throat, heavy and thick and meaty. The music thrums back at him: _alive, alive_. Shishido and Ohtori share a look, faint smiles echoing mutual anxiety. 

“What is your status?”

“What —o— think??” That’s Kikumaru. He sounds tense and pissed off. But alive. Their Comm-Pod feed sizzles in and out of existence with electronic whistles that set both their teeth on edge.

“Shush, Eiji,” Oishi goes. “We are i— trouble. Bazo—a’s weight is causing —to sink int— seafloor. We’re stuck. Attempts to free —selves only —to be sucked in deeper. Water levels —sing fast.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out. “LOCCENT, did you get that?” 

“Loud and clear, Silver Mirage,” Oshitari confirms, professional now. “Your only objective is too keep them from drowning, as soon as the threat has been taken care of and the bay cleared we will send out a team to extract Golden Bazooka.”

“That could be hours,” Shishido points out. In the distance he can see Rising Serpent and Burning Phoenix facing off with Corsair, they seem to be at a stalemate, a tiring confrontation that is one-step-forward-two-steps-back at the edge of the Miracle Mile. Holding their own, but unable to take out the Kaiju.

“All you have to do is hold your Drift,” Oshitari says.

Right. Easy for him to say, stupid suspender-wearing ponce.“We are going to try and get their head above the water,” he responds instead. Before Oishi and Kikumaru get wet feet -or worse, he mentally adds.

Ohtori thinks they’d better be careful, not move the other Jaeger too much, they might irreparably damage her if they pull her up too steep, too sudden, kill the others even as they try to save them. They’ll need to be patient and oh, so very _careful_ , shit. A gentle suggestion slips with a sweet lilt into his mind and yeah, that’d work, he recedes to let Ohtori guide him, following his lead as the other reaches for the submerged Jaeger. Scoops her up by the head and shoulders like an artist stroking paint upon a canvas and Silver Mirage is so soft with Ohtori driving her, none of the usual brutal force that inevitably comes while attempting to do anything with a skyscraper-huge combat robot. 

Made for punching alien monsters, yeah, not so much for delicate handiwork.

Yet still Ohtori eases Bazooka upright steadily, slowly and with infinite patience. Shishido follows along; arms out to cradle their comrades with the strength of both their minds.

That is what they do for the next hour. Two… three. The sun rises over the horizon, within Golden Bazooka the parasites gnaw and nibble and wriggle their way higher. They wait. In the distance two Jaegers dance around a Kaiju, advance-and-retreat. As their synch ratio crashes, Kikumaru unhooks long enough to unearth the rifles and hand one to his partner so they can defend themselves.

Shishido is swimming in cold sweat within his drivesuit, as well as sick to his stomach with hunger. He distracts himself by admiring their shared headspace, marvel at the efficiency of Ohtori’s communication with him. Jirou was warm and hazy: bouncing concepts between one another that can only come to life when two people grew up together, tightly knit ideas consisting of memories and shared expressions and everyday life. Ohtori is all sound and visuals, plans and suggestions relayed purely through his mental voice, the music in his mind, punctuated by rich images. Shishido re-learns himself, reaching to swirl psychic fingers through the music and draw out sudden bursts of wild energetic sound, tops his own off with determination and emotions, until they resonate perfectly in tune, weaving their own song together. 

It is midday when the first staccato of gunshots filters through the feed from the Golden Bazooka.

They go silent, just a steady hum, frustrated in their inability but to stand there and wait for news. They can hear Oishi rasp out instructions, garbled over the feed, and Eiji respond. Not dead yet, not dead yet. There’s still time.

When did it become evening?

In the distance, Burning Phoenix totters, teeters, topples, as the neural handshake of her pilots dissolves, the prolonged strain of maintaining it finally wearing them down. In a move borne out of pure desperation, Rising Serpent hums as she powers up her last shot on the plasma cannon, shoves it into the gash even as bright energy erupts from its gauntlet. The Kaiju is blasted backwards, blue chunks and charred parasites arc overhead. Droops into the ocean, but does not go down.

Corsair halts. Even miles out into the ocean, they can hear its chittering increase in pitch. It muddles around indecisively, blue sludge bubbling out in a goopy slurry. Killing shot.

They did it -Momo and Kaidoh. They got that vicious bastard good.

The Kaiju sinks low, crouching. Disappears under the water. 

“It is not dead,” Shishido says, even as Oshitari’s voice screams over the comm-link:

“Silver Mirage it is coming straight at you!!”

Figures.

“Oishi, we are under attack,” he shouts. “We need to let you go before it-“

It’s already there. Corsair leaps out of the ocean like a grotesque dolphin. In an instant they take in the ruined eye -splattered over the side of its skull like a rotten fruit-, the serrated opening in the middle of its body, black-charred and crawling with parasites as they attempt to swarm free of the burning interior, the bluepurple slime dribbling in its wake. 

It shrieks in fury at them. And, ah, there’s the mouth, within the opening, full of teeth and a thick, swollen tongue. Corsair’s as good as dead but more than willing to take them down with it. They’re easy targets, really; sitting ducks with Bazooka cradled in their grip. Maybe it doesn’t even see them— only the impaired golden Jaeger, there and ready to be destroyed. Who could say, it changes nothing; Corsair is coming straight at them.

There’s no Shishido Ryou and there’s no Ohtori Choutarou. The length of the Drift didn’t wear them out. There’s only the bright burn of their melody and Silver Mirage echoing it. They move, need not even think about it. Let go— Golden Bazooka sinks out of sight instantly, whirl and 

they sing:

there it comes _fast fast fast_ c’mon baby my pretty lady _she’s ours ours don’t worry can feel her want it_ REACH FUCK YOUR HIDEOUS FACE grab its head oh gross it squelches like a sponge oozes something slick can’t be good SQUEEZE ITS HEAD there goes the second eye splattering clear fluid and thick globs over a finger pull back the other hand

They pull back their right hand, holding the struggling Corsair by its head with the left. It lashes angry, spewing parasites in their direction, but they bounce and skitter off the slick plating, dazzled by the Mirage-Tech, stranded without an entry point, roll off like so much as drops of water and splash into the ocean. The sediment oozing out of the tissue on its head is acid, or something similar to it, because Mirage’s hand sizzles- her pinky collapses as her plating corrodes. No matter, her right hand is slotting and remaking itself into a long barrel to reveal a glowing interior, emitting steam and crackling energy as it powers up, even as the booster at the elbow flares to life.

now

 _now_  

Silver Mirage’s arm rockets forward and into the open gash, swallowed up until its wrist, silicon flesh squelching around it. Flares to life.

say AAAH _one shot all our souls_ whoa bull’s-eye _so fast elbow rocket couldn’t even see ourselves move_ must give Gakuto a gift basket _this is amazing_ I love this new trick don’t you love this new trick _agreed best trick_ lets splatter this bitch across the fucking bay AND MAKE IT RAIN KAIJU

The plasma cannon fires. 

Once.

Corsair convulses. Silver Mirage grips its head firmer, enormous fingertips digging into the flesh, twisting into the skull.

Twice.

Half its body explodes like a balloon, shreds of silicon going everywhere.

Thrice. 

The crater blooms with light in the centre, expands impossibly, shatters outward in a blur. They are holding only the head. 

“I think it is dead,” Shishido speaks out loud, only for the benefit of being able to hear himself say it.

“Pretty sure,” Ohtori echoes.

Turn around — _breathe breathe holy shit that was scary that was fast it was amazing I was you I am you_ — toss the head over their shoulder casually and reach under the water instead. Golden Bazooka hasn’t gone far, they grip her under her arms and lift her carefully until her head breaches the surface. 

“You two okay?” he asks. 

Crackling static. Then: “I a— hungry!” Eiji says.

“—in need of a shower,” Oishi says.

“Are the parasites still active, senpai?” Ohtori asks.

“Th— dying off,” Oishi answers. “What happe—?”

“Corsair’s dead,” Shishido says.

The LOCCENT comm-link erupts to life. Shishido thinks he can hear Jirou cheer. They call up a visual on the holo. Oshitari flickers into view, bow-tie crooked and looking perplexed.

He says: “I have no words.”

“You always have words,” Shishido fires back, laughing. 

Tezuka takes over. “Well done gentlemen,” no change in expression, no warmth in his voice. It’s the best praise anybody has ever received _ever_. “We are sending out a team for Golden Bazooka right away. Can you maintain your Drift any longer?”

laughter, high and clear, like running fingers over the key of a piano

“We’re good,” Shishido assures him.

He doesn’t need to look at Ohtori to see his smile.

*

It has been hours, but Shishido can feel Choutarou move around at the other side of the complex, can feel his exhaustion and inability to assuage it, mind reaching, reaching always reaching.

 _Here_ , he hums, reaching back.

_there_

“Your hair is a disaster,” Jirou sighs.

Shishido supposes it is, but couldn’t care less. A chunk of it is gone, nearly at the exact same spot Jirou’s scar is. They had to cut him out of his Pons, his hair tangled beyond hope into the circuitry suit and neural receptors, everything a mess of relay gel and exertion as though he’d attempted to permanently merge with his Jaeger. (maybe he did -their goddess, their _goddess_ , a black sun of pure beauty)

“Just cut it all off,” he sighs lazily, eyes closing under the sensation of Jirou’s fingers moving the tangled tresses this way and that. Feels like there’s starlight under his skin. Glowing bright enough to blind. He can still taste the Drift, no, _hear_ it, at the edges of his mind. That’s where it’ll always be now. The slick, steel _snnnk_ of scissors is not enough to rouse him as he plays around with it until it sounds like him, too, fluid and sleepy. Promising.

Dark hair falls onto the floor.

Jirou echoes at his back, familiar and steadying. Makes it easier, makes him calmer, calm and steady enough to be amused at Choutarou’s restlessness at the lack of _him_ \- the lack of Shishido in his mind, jarring him into flitting around uncomfortably.

Wonders if Choutarou can feel him, Jirou, his soulbrother.

A lullaby curls at the back of his mind.

_yes_

“There, done,” Jirou says, leaning back and dusting long strands from his palms. Shishido’s scalp feels light and airy, like the centre of his chest. His skin itches. Hands brush through the remains of his hair, slipping from nape-upwards towards the front, against the grain. Cup around his temples. “Are you happy?” Jirou whispers against the top of his head, voice soft.

Shishido swallows, doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.

Lips crown him with a smile. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

mine yours mine 

family

Jirou laughs. “Just _go_ already, your mind isn’t even here anyway!”

He supposes not. At least he knows exactly where it is. 

*

Ohtori meets him in the middle, approaching each other on bare feet in the centre of an abandoned hallway. The Shatterdome never sleeps, but here they are alone.

Just the sight of him results in an impossible crawling ache for him, like his skin is trying to peel away from him in an effort for contact, for skinship, for shared exhales and thoughts and heartbeats. They stand grinning at each other, bright bursts of elated symphony buzzing behind his eyes, and Shishido wants to throw himself at this person and sink through the flesh and bone, never having to emerge again, stay forever.

“Like your hair,” Ohtori says. Follows it up with nervous laughter. 

come here come here come and get me

Shishido wonders at that, at how powerful the connection remains, and he supposes he doesn’t really hear it, hear Choutarou, but he _knows_ nonetheless. Like a book he read, a book with a living, breathing story, within reach but closed for the moment. One he knows well enough to recite passages out of, re-trace the words with the centre of his soul. Or maybe a song he heard, once, years ago on the beaten old radio at the orphanage, the one Gakuto fixed over the course of several nights. A song that makes him go: _hey, hey I know you_.

Their Drift was steady, effortless, even after more than half a day. Shishido thinks they could’ve gone on for forever.

This is just the beginning.

“Like your face,” Shishido answers and grins a sharp smile at the answering blush.

“Like your mind,” Ohtori whispers, cheeks pink.

Are they flirting? No, he supposes not, just stalling. Why? Good question.

“You look tired,” he says.

“I can’t sleep,” Ohtori admits.

_not without you come here_

Shishido reaches for him with his right hand.

Feels the touch at the edges of mind before their skin brushes.

 

home  
 _home_

 

 

Within the Jaeger bay, Silver Mirage shifts and raises her right arm.

_-fin-_

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my FANTASTIC co-worldbuilder for this verse, [Hongwen](http://thelaziesthufflepuff.tumblr.com) and über-beta [amyused](http://amyused.tumblr.com)! You guys were fucking fantastic, thank you so so so much!
> 
> Comments and kudos are VERY VERY appreciated <3


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